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Vanessa picked it up. She held it to the light and squinted.
“Ivy,” she said slowly. “Is my vision suddenly dotted or are these all zeroes I’m looking at? Is this a million fucking dollars?”
I didn’t answer.
Because yes, it was.
A million dollars. No note. No explanation. Just a number with a signature at the bottom, like I was a problem he could pay off.
Another check followed. Like he was setting up some kind of billionaire child support subscription plan.
What he doesn’t understand—what he never understood—is that this was never about money. It was about us. Or what I thought we were. I know he thinks I betrayed him, but if you love someone, truly love someone, like he’d said he did, why not give them a chance to explain? An opportunity to overcome the obstacle?
I sit now in the corner of the nursery, surrounded by unopened boxes and tiny onesies I can barely look at without crying. My hands rest on my stomach as the baby rolls beneath my skin, stretching, reminding me they’re almost here.
We’re in the final stretch. And I’m doing this alone.
He showed up here last week, unannounced. No warning. Just… there. I am so grateful that my brother and Marissa had come by to drop off gifts for the baby or I don’t know what I would have done.
The doorbell rang, and I remember standing frozen in the hallway, heart pounding as Jeremy answered it. I knew it was Carter before I even saw him.
I caught a glimpse of him past my brother’s shoulder—tall, tense, jaw tight like he was holding back everything he didn’t know how to say.
And I walked away. Not because I didn’t want to talk. God, I wanted to talk. I wanted to scream at him, ask him why he never responded to all the texts before that one. Ask him if I ever meant anything at all. But what would be the point? He made it clear where he stood. And I refuse to be some tragic cliché who ends up with the father of her child just because of a shared biology and one night under a stormy sky.
We may be having a baby, but that doesn’t mean we’re having a life together. Once the baby is born, we’ll figure out custody. He can raise the child when it’s his time. I’ll do the same when it’s mine. Split weeks. Alternate holidays. Smooth transitions. Clean.
He can buy the things he needs to buy and pay for the things he needs to pay for, and I’ll do my part. I don’t want any of his money to come to me. I already know he’s a great dad so I have no reason to doubt he will do his part. That’s my theory, anyway. It sounds neat and empowering in my head.
But the truth? It doesn’t feel empowering. It feels like heartbreak. Dressed up as control.
Because deep down, some small, stubborn part of me thought what we had was real.
Not just chemistry. Not just heat. Something real.
And the worst part is… I still feel it.
Even now. Even after all this time. Even after the cold text, the silence, the money, and the unanswered questions.
I still feel him.
I still want him.
And I hate myself for it.
I run my fingers along the edge of the bassinet I haven’t finished building, trying to pull myself together.
“No matter what,” I whisper to the baby, my palm pressed gently against the swell of my belly, “you’re going to be loved. So damn loved.”
Because I can’t control Carter—what he says, what he does—but I know one thing for sure: he’s going to love this baby.
I sit there a while longer, thinking. Thinking about Carter, about the times we shared, about our baby.
I don’t know if it’s the hormones or just the mess of everything, but before I know it, I’m crying. Full-blown ugly crying. Snot running down my nose, chest heaving, the whole works.
Vanessa walks in like the hero she always is—arms full of ice cream, sardines, and Cheeto Puffs.
Don’t ask.